


[noun] simper

by jackgyeoms



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 20:44:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6344476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jackgyeoms/pseuds/jackgyeoms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>you're the only one who makes me smile constantly.</i> Five times that Napoleon made Illya smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	[noun] simper

**Author's Note:**

> written for [ccavill](http://ccavill.tumblr.com).

 

**i.**

The Italian sun beats down upon them, warms their skin before it threatens to burn. Illya hasn’t had the chance to appreciate the sun, the blue skies, and whilst he adores the Russian skyline, he must admit to something beautiful in this landscape. On the terrace, they find a moment of solace between worlds that they will soon return to. The alliance between America and Russia was due to necessity, and while it had been a nice holiday, the trip was almost over and the reality of the cold war was encroaching upon them. Neither of them spoke about it. Behind them, the bonfire burns and signifies truce. The watch, back in its place of honour on Illya’s wrist, meant something more.

“Absolutely hate working with you, Peril,” Napoleon sighs out. It’s genuine and affectionate, as much as they can be in this moment. It’s an echo to a time not long past, before they had bled and fought and saved each other. Illya thinks that he never thought _Peril_ spilling from Napoleon’s lips would make him feel anything but rage.

Illya scoffs, his lips quirk and he replies, “You are terrible spy, Cowboy.”

They share a look, and swallow a mouthful of scotch to squash what they are feeling.

 

**ii.**

Rome isn’t the end, and neither is Istanbul. There is Reykjavik, Granada, and Athens. Marseille, Illya thinks, is when this starts to feel permeant and whilst there are still phone calls – Oleg asking questions that Illya is finding it increasingly hard to answer; Sanders reminds Napoleon of prison cells and the years of which he still has in debt – it feels safe to relax.

U.N.C.L.E still books separate rooms for them, but more often than not, the three of them end up in Illya’s suite. He’s not sure when his rooms became the unspoken rendezvous point, it certainly wasn’t something that Illya agreed to. Gaby and Napoleon take up the space with tittering laughter and clinking glasses, and Illya _likes_ how not alone he feels.

He doesn’t drink, but that doesn’t stop his teammates from doing so. Gaby is a vodka girl, something that he appreciates in his core, whilst Napoleon soaks himself in expensive scotches – he isn’t surprised, it’s in his skin like his natural scent. He will sit at his chessboard, challenge himself at each turn, but refills glasses when they are empty. Napoleon grins at him every time, always managing to appear roguishly ruffled even at this late in the evening. His tie is loosened and the buttons on his shirt are slowly undoing.

_Lewd_ is what Gaby calls him, laughing so hard that she sloshes her drink over her hand. It has Napoleon grinning, stretching his arms across the back of the sofa. He is on display, and Illya finds himself watching over the top of rooks and kings. Gaby calls him worse things, flicks liquid at him that darkens the fabric. Armani, Illya remembers. It’s a shame.

But Napoleon returns in kind, and Illya doesn’t understand how spies could act like children. It’s different from KGB. It warms him. He never expected that.

He presses a stolen pawn to his lips, doesn’t realise he is smiling into it until Napoleon calls him out on it.  He snarls because he doesn’t know what else to do, stalks away and collects himself in the bathroom. He can hear Gaby admonishing Napoleon in the other room, but blocks it out. His hands twitch against the marble counter top.

The next time it happens, Napoleon doesn’t say anything, but he looks like he really wants to.

 

**iii.**

Illya likes watching Napoleon work, he decides. There is something elegantly predatory in how he moves through the crowd. His body twists amongst the crowd, the brush of shoulders hiding the touch of his hands, and Illya doesn’t know how a man who draws so much attention to himself could be such an effective thief.

There is a gala in Riga – U.N.C.L.E Intel has a metalwork tycoon, Deiss, hiding contraband among his exports, and it’s almost too easy to get an invitation into his home. Illya is the trophy boy of heiress, Lorena Caspuri, and hangs off Gaby’s arm for the night. He is not required to speak – Lorena is the focus, he merely an accessory - so he is free to observe. Deiss is easy to find, and whilst he watches, Illya’s eyes drift. Napoleon is close behind him, whispers into the ear of a matron, who blushes and doesn’t notice the ruby necklace slipping into Napoleon’s jacket pocket.

“Solo’s taking his time making contact,” Gaby murmurs into the rim of her champagne glass, draws Illya’s gaze back to her. She is beautiful; made for this world of diamonds just as much as Napoleon is.

“He is showing off,” Illya says, ducks his head so no one can see him speak.

Gaby hums. “But that’s because he knows you’re watching.” Illya jerks, fingers curling, eyes wide, and Gaby appears amused, “He’s a drama queen, and you are hardly subtle.”

She pats his arm affectionate condolences, and Illya feels so very on show. He stares at her temple, at the sparkles that decorate her locks, and jumps when Gaby informs him “contact has been made”. He looks now. He sees the way that Napoleon inserts himself into the inner circle, the way that interest lingers in the gazes of those around him, the way that even Deiss cannot seem to look away. _Terrible spy._

Napoleon looks at him over the tiaras and gel, and smirks. Illya cannot stop the way the muscles in his mouth move to mimic, but he forces them back into a straight line a moment later.

He’s blinding, Illya thinks, and something lodges tight in the back of his throat. He swallows but it doesn’t shift. He taps a beat against his trouser leg and only stops when he must sneak away. THRUSH agents line the top floors of Deiss’ home, and they will not stand in the way of the information U.N.C.L.E needs. The tick stops by the third neck break.

(Gaby wears new jewels upon her neck the next day, and rubies sit wonderfully upon her skin. There are cufflinks left in his room. Illya makes a show of insisting he does not need Napoleon’s ill-gotten goods, but he wears the gold links during the next undercover mission. Napoleon says they look good, flashes white teeth and leaves a tickling touch against Illya’s wrist for the rest of the day).

 

**iv.**

Napoleon follows his lead easily, one step, two step, until his back is against the wall. He gasps when Illya is pressed against him, chest to chest, and hums happily when a leg slides between his. Napoleon’s hands are in the back of Illya’s hair, draws him closer until their lips can touch. It’s been a long time coming, and the feeling of _finally_ is overwhelming in the way that it consumes.

Illya enjoys kissing. It’s one of those acts of intimacy that he rarely gets to partake in. It brings his guard down, makes it hard for him to think clearly. It has him clinging with shaking hands, and wishing with each clang of teeth. Kissing Napoleon, he thinks, is better than he ever expected.

Everything with Napoleon is a show, even this.  He makes art with swollen lips and palm shaped bruises upon white skin. He knows where to touch to make Illya tremble, knows where to bite to make him keen; knows where to kiss to break him entirely.

When he pulls back, Napoleon looks wonderfully unkempt, eyes bright and cheeks flushed. He bears a strong chest and distinct collarbones, and Illya is distracted by the hair that sits there. He jerks when hands touch his neck, and Napoleon soothes him as if he were a beast that needed to be tamed. He had never been owned, not even by Russia, and that is what made him such a great operative, but should he ever get a choice of who to bend for, Napoleon is first on the list. Skilled fingers trace the collar of his turtleneck, follow the rigs of the fabric over chest and stomach until they fiddle with the bottom. It comes off in one swoop, and Illya shudders a breath.

Napoleon watches him. Splays a hand over his stomach muscles. “Loving your work Peril,” he murmurs.

Illya snorts. Sniggers, shoulders shaking. Napoleon looks irrevocably pleased with himself, and Illya’s smile makes his cheeks hurt. Napoleon kisses it, again and again, and Illya feels lighter for it.

 

**v.**

Illya wakes up with his head on Napoleon’s chest, and smiles. The room is lit by the morning sun streaming through a crack in the hotel room curtains. It lays over his feet, stretched out beneath the sheets, and he wriggles his toes into it. There’s a sticky layer to his flesh, but he doesn’t wish to move away just yet.

Napoleon snores into his pillow, but he still manages to look magnificent. Illya is enamoured by it, strokes a hand between pecs, tracing patterns into the flesh there. It makes Napoleon hum and yawn, stretch upwards into the touch.

He peers at him through sleepy laden eyes, too blue beneath the loose black curl that falls over his face. “Morning Peril,” he rasps, yawns and a fingers strokes the hair at the nape of Illya’s neck.

Illya leans into the touch, lets his eyes fall shut. “Cowboy.” His lips flicker upwards, and Napoleon angles downwards to lick into it. Illya lets the smile fall away in favour of, and thinks of that terrace in Rome all over again.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have tumblr: [iidriselba](http://gladers.co.vu)


End file.
